


With The Devil, Do I Play? (El Diablo Is To Blame)

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Arcadia (UK Band), Duran Duran, The Power Station (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Aristocracy, Biting, Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Coming of Age, Crushes, Dom/sub Undertones, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Fledglings, Growing Up, Injury, M/M, Nudity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Piece, Pining, Slavery, Slums, Threats, Torture, Underage - Freeform, Victorian era, Violence, criminals, rich vs poor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24471925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Le Bon was the last to fall, falling victim to the ungodly pull of the unholy entity before him. The need to join him, jointhemor die, under his Master’s very hand.He shoved a hand to his neck, there was no bite. Yet.DURAN VAMPIRE AU
Relationships: Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 🩸 It’s finally here, my vamp Duran AU. An early Nick birthday fic, I guess! This has been a long wait and I know there have been plenty of requests for more blood sucking Nick and John content. I’m excited, I hope you enjoy and enter if you dare...
> 
> 🩸 Somewhat a retelling of Nigel and Nick meeting, forming a clan of ‘band mates’ together: but as vampires. Enough said.
> 
> Loosely inspired by Anne Rice’s _Interview With The Vampire _in terms of the First POV and narration throughout.__

_Birmingham, June 1985_

_So, you want me to tell you the story of my life. Off load my inner most secrets, doubt and pain. The thrills, the frills that have encased my skin and the blood that failed to rush through it._

_  
You’d have to have a lot of tape for my story. I’ve had a very unusual life._

  
***  
  


Lurking in a darkened corner, only a slither of light dared to pierce it, to reveal the haunting gaze that shot out from the haze. His eyes were that of the devil, sparking flames behind his droopy eyelids, threatening to come out into the light and tear through all in his path. What lay before him was a mystery, a foreign object. A species long since forgotten, alienated and forbidden.

The man wouldn’t dare to touch it, so there he sat breathing rapid; determined to hide his fright behind his wide and beady blue eyes. By burying his quivering form in the boxy black coat that enrapt his lean form, a pattern shirt, turned back sleeves. The slightest head movement, surprised jolt, let his earrings sway and pulse deafen him: thoroughly caught in the crossfire; the trance, of the unholy gaze of eyes he had darkened.

Gulping, the man with short and newly dyed black hair, motioned to the table. His apartment was lonesome, lit only by the moon that beat its way through the rich curtains: casting the space in a stark sheen of blue and silver; adding insult to injury over the ghostly acquaintance at his side.

Without word, only a ‘whoosh,’ was he reminded that he was not alone. That there was more than a single, striking brown gaze boring into his soul, undoubtedly reading it and raking in all his secrets and fears: finding ways to turn him against himself. To bring their whole clan to a stand still, to fall from heaven.

For Le Bon to fall from grace.

“I will give you,” it began, voice taught and barely above a growl, “the _final_ chance to say no.”

For Le Bon to join him, join _them_.

He swallowed, gulp audible, before bringing his fingers to rest atop of the small table and to tap idly. He had a small beat, a ‘ba-dum, ba-dum’ which quickened; mirroring that of his racing heart as he fought to keep his eyes on the pasty beholder.

Still thrust deep into the shadows, they were anything but on Le Bon’s side, the candlelight burned and the lamps crashed, sending shards to the floor and him plummeting with it: a hand over his ears; whining, as sparks flew around him and his skin bled with it.

“I _warned_ you, I’ve warned you time and time again and yet you _insist_. You insist on knowing my life and will not become part of it. What, pray tell, do you want of me?”

He couldn’t hear himself think, why he had been hoisted up and thrown into the ceiling. A stone cold grip at his neck tightening and tightening, threatening to throw him to the ground.

“Y-yes!” He rasped, struggling. “P.. _please_ , tell me now… wha- Ni- please.”

He was thrown to floor, crashing head first into the mantelpiece. Barely escaping the flames that had been ignited out of nowhere.

“I have told you,” there was a bellow, the tone scorning through his ears, “do not, _ever_ , call me by… my human name. That man died long ago, with my soul, when it was taken… _destroyed_ , you know that.”

Stumbling to his feet, “I… I’m sorry but just _please_ , just tell me.” He fell to his knees, baring his neck.

Those precious inches of skin were on show, there were no frills in his path, nothing to stop him. For he could be taken right then and there, ripped from seam to seam. Surrender to the waking world, have his life sucked and bled into another dead soul.

For the ghost didn’t move. So he pressed on, daringly.

“Just tell me! What happened in Tel Aviv?”

“ _Tel Aviv?_ ” The was a scoff before him, a suede boot right by his face.

  
Withdrawing, shivering in a small ball, he hunched over and braved himself for the kick. It didn’t come.

Poorly backlit by the flames, barely able to make out the chains that he couldn’t comprehend hadn’t yet sliced his cheek; he trembled, aching for a reply.

  
“Tel Aviv? Surely a notorious poet such as yourself would require the full tale. From mountains in the north, down to here with you, back in the murky streets of my youth, having been _plagued_ by your kind since.”

“Plagued?” He rasped.

He was yanked up to standing, face flush and mere inches from.. from..

Their gazes locked, a tantalising Tiger – eye, doused with brown, on a simmering sapphire, which could barely hold itself as he felt the heat; simmering underneath his damp skin. 

He was motioned back to the table, a stone cold motion, ordered back to it. He followed, his own boots clanking on the tile floor as he shuffled over. 

“Tell me, what is that patterned monstrosity on your being?”

Simon chanced a glance down, fumbling with his words. 

  
“Insignia,” he pointed, unnecessarily. “My boat, her name is Drum.” Taking a seat, fighting to keep his gaze aloft, he was faced by the creature again; lips now quirking upwards into something softer.  
  


“Have you ever, my dear, been thrashed about by your love? Your lovely vessel?”

Simon shook his head.

“So she has never thrust you into The valley of death? The jaws of hell?” There was a pause, a growl. “She’s never tried to _end_ you?”

He straightened up, barely able to silence the harsh thrum of his heart: wondering why it still raced and why he couldn’t control it. 

“Ah well, then you wouldn’t know what it’s like. To be ripped from the hands of your only support - do you?”

He didn’t dare to lock gazes, step into the flame. 

“I,” it began, tone dropping to match how he was before, “I’m going to ask you a _final_ time. For you must give me your word, that you will not run. Not laugh, nor question the life I have lead. I only want to give you the explanation, _Simon_ , before I give you the chance… the chance that I _never_ had.”

Running a nervous tongue across his plush bottom lip, he nodded, eyes fleeting back onto the piercing opals before him.

“Say the word, Simon.”

“What word?”

A cock up of lips, a slick hand running through overgrown silken hair.

“If your eyes are open, my dear, you will have all the information you ever _dared_ to let yourself know.” The words dropped, a daring baritone over took him and yet it cracked. Paving way for the endless insecurities, poorly hidden by that intimidating stance.

“Trust.”

A nod.

“Loyalty.”

A nod.

“You’ll have me forever,” a gulp, “Master Tay—”

He was hoisted from his seat, pulse soaring as they were taken higher and higher. They flew towards the window, crashing through it, shards flinging all around them and he was dropped. Just like that. Heaving, breath hitching, he could barely regain it as he stumbled back to standing. With a hand on his throat, cautious, he pivoted around and was blinded by the lights.

Before him lay Nigel. A young, timid and shy boy with overgrown shaggy black hair and a hunch in his shoulders. He was dressed in cheap chiffon ruffles, coated in leather, all tied down with a blazing red sash that made his presence known.

Quivering, barely able to make heads or tails of it all, he began to trail his way back inside only to find that Nigel, a boy when he wanted a man, had vanished. Upped and vanished, leaving a stunned man to crash back to the floor; knees hitting the linoleum hard with his head in his hands.

The voice was raspy, small yet in no way stunted. There was a ghostly presence, enjoying the silence. Only the small sway of the satin he wore and the fine jewels that he flaunted could be heard; over his own pants and the cool midnight breeze.

“I’m going to tell you the story of my life. You’re going to need a lot of tape for my story, Simon. I’ve had a very... _unusual_ life.”


	2. Chapter 2

_I was a very lonesome child, lost in the dreary fantasies that I would never see. Lost in the lonesome nightmares of being raised alone, shunned to the streets, with the rich aristocrats around us; letting the poor go up in flames. For I was twelve, thirteen, when I first made the encounter. The acquaintance was mythical, mysterious and full of wonder. A shining light, a guiding hand, to end my dwell in darkness._

_To give me a new life. As long as first he could take it._

***

Wandering aimlessly amongst the tombstones, a young and fragile soul dropped to his knees, clutching tight at the earth daring to swallow him. He was bathed in the low light, squinting up to the moon; in the hopes that it could comfort him. To stop him from reading the tombstone script as if it were Braille, ingrained into him, he would never miss a beat.

There was rustle, a sudden gust of wind. He then saw it, shielded eyes only leaving the comfort of his blackened arms and tattered sleeves for a tenth of a second, sure he had spotted something. 

Quivering, icicles dangling from his skin as he braved the bitter cold, he slowly rose to his feet. Although he could barely trust his eyes, they were always playing tricks on him, he was adamant that there was something out there. Something desperate to thrust him from his lonesome nightmare, the poor deprived soul ripped himself from his father’s grave and stumbled into the smog that coated the field.

  
He was traipsing through, eyes narrowed and breath stalling. Caught short, he was sent plummeting to the ground, collapsing atop of the concrete. Knees bruised, cheeks aflame in tears, the liquid ran hotter than anything he had ever known. A poor boy shunned to roam the weary streets, to beg, to demean, to lose himself more and more as his poor body whittled itself down to pure skin on bone: Nigel cried out, uncontrollably, desperately seeking the light.

What he saw, stunned him to no avail. 

The pain is his knees was blinding, yet the ringing in his ears gave way for he was enrapt, enamoured, jaw dropping to expose his dopey overbite and gaze blown wide. He was panting heavily, trying to crawl. He was panting heavily, sending himself again crashing to the concrete.

There was a light, something blinding in a colour or shade he couldn’t name. It was calling to him, surely, dousing him in silken shades of pure grace and hope. Nothing a poor dodger, running through the tattered streets of the Black County should ever be privy too. Soot slathered his skin, dirt tattered it and yet; a chance to come clean, lay right before him.

***

_The year was 1873 right before my presumed thirteenth birthday that summer, where I first lay eyes upon him. Although I, lost in the mist, couldn’t fathom the spirits that lay before me. How unholy they were, how the figure they prayed upon my world was no heathen of the sort and was instead doomed to wander the earth alone. To traverse every inch, seeking solace in a partner._

_How one would never know, that he be damned to serve his maker. To cast the darkened magic, to lose himself to the man that made him._

_***_   
  


Cramming his filthy, tattered body into the small hole, he set up camp within the murky hills. He was free to roam or to hide, to store his few stolen goods from the towns and hide them underneath the rumpled blackened shirt that dangled from his scrawny body. He munched tirelessly on his heavenly bread, two slices having fallen into his grubby hands as through town he sprinted; running wild from the spirits he knew were still calling him.

What he had missed was that of the spirits in their more reconfigured form; in a state that Nigel could barely bring himself to see. For he was not as alone as he so thought. His squat, locked far away in the Black Country hills, were plagued with running smog and soot, they were thoroughly covered and yet the damned could still find him. Still pounce on him, ragged, like a tiger and shake him from his loneliest of nightmares.

Having waffled down his only score of the week, the dreary dodger bundled himself in tight; awaiting for the poor sunlight to drop away. For the familiar, much preferred, gloom to cast itself above him. For the moon to cast rays of stunning blue and silver, paint his skin in the darkened hues and bid him farewell. Praying that he, Nigel, would live to see another morning. Not that the Catholic within Nigel, standing upon his own precipice having nothing much to say, had nothing much to pray for anymore.

His invitation to his end was a dust cloud on the rise and yet, poor eyes or no, he was too blinded to foresee it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to help clear things up a little: there are constant flashbacks between both timelines: in 1985 and a hundred years prior.

“You were friends for a long time, then?” Simon piped up, running a hand through his freshly cut hair.

He was staring them down, he couldn’t help but run his ice blue eyes all over that pasty guise. How he seemed naturally pale, skin now white. The only colour to his palette was gifted by his veins, heightened and pulsing blue near the surface of his ghostly skin. They weaved their way down his forehead, his cheeks and neck. As far as Simon could see, before the creamy skin lost itself to the plunging satin he wore.

There was a cough, a silent order for him to stop staring. 

“Indeed we were. He had followed me for much longer than I could recall, guiding me. _Calling_ me, perhaps. He had my life in his thin, bony hands, and all I could do was hang on.” The voice grated, slow and tormenting. Lips were licked, stalling for time or for a breath. “Blackmail is the only deal, a promise dealer sees.”

“You and… uh?”

“ _Nicholas_. Nicholas James Bates II, son of noble stature. A plantation, what have you. Then, his family moved into the city, far from us common folk, with a toy shop of sorts to his name.”

Simon perked up, eyes fleeting back to those lips. How meticulously they were licked; moistened. How certain vocals were stretched and how certain accents were dropped. He didn’t resemble a grubby commoner, a Brummie of sorts, no more.

  
***  
  


_We became the best of friends, could never part nor did I dare to leave the shadow at his side. There was something about him, casting that ray of light into my otherwise blackened soul and my heart leapt with it; danced with it. Not that we made much of dancing. We could two step and sway, hand in hand, for he would idly follow my foot steps and beat. It was one of the rare times that I seemed to have the upper hand: dancing._

_He invited me into his home, intent on my presence staying there. Content on our souls finding harmony, a peaceful rhapsody in the comfort of his Georgian Manor._

  
***  
  


Shaking, Nigel couldn’t take the smooth hand that was laid out before him. He feared that he would curse it, plague it with his filth and baggage that he kept. He wasn’t innocent, having been privy to some of life’s greatest hardships and forced to live out his days alone. As the sun dripped down bedding heavy behind his scrawny figure, cap in hand, he shook his head and began to stumble backwards.

There were voices. From where - he didn’t know. They seemed to be riding the air that was much less chilly here, more open so he could breathe. And yet, his bottom lip was still trembling and the familiar prick of tears had long since settled in. 

Nigel turned on his shattered heel.

He was never much of an athlete, too lanky. His heart could be seen in his chest, trying to beat with persistence. He didn’t get very far, hobbling down the hills that gleamed green in a whole shade brighter. Down the path of cobblestones that felt so wonderful underneath his feet. He kept on trudging his way through, a ghostly hand on his shoulder coaxing him out of his daydream.

Nigel had no idea how he had been caught so fast. It was as though he had caught the wind and rode it over, feet aloft and had simply flown on the breeze.

Panting heavily, unable to shake himself free, Nigel turned but kept his gaze fixed to the floor.

Then, mind ever so cloudy, he could faintly register the soft grip and it alluded him; wiping the slate clean and his head clean with it. His lips parted, a small moan, as his cheeks were flush with the heat. A heat unlike anything Nigel had ever known. A washed hand, a moisturised hand, caressed his cheek and forced him to tilt his head upwards. Surely the sight would be more exciting than his worn in shoes, the hole on the right big toe. 

Eyelashes fanning upwards, he finally caught sight of it. Let himself roam, let himself feel.

“ _Please_.” It begged, barely above a whisper.

Nigel was faced with the most magnificent of beauties, wrapped in a gorgeous satin bow in a colour he couldn’t name. Whatever it was, was bright and it sparkled; sparking something deep from within his soul and causing his stomach to churn. Causing it to flip and roll, for no coherent vocals to drop from his lips.

“Please Nigel; please _stay_ with me.”

At that, the tears began to fall.

“I wouldn’t like keeping you, Nigel, in the dark.”

Nigel was on his knees, grotty hands smearing themselves over the satin before him. The rich fabrics, grand colours, he was faced with the shiniest of buckles. He cried harder, body contorting, before another soft voice boomed about him.

It pulled his focus upwards, riding the sensation. The figure was backlit by the low sunlight, an aura about him resembling a _halo_. Wiping fruitlessly at his face, now stained with the soot from his fingertips, Nigel sniffed and shuddered as the pale hand was again held out before him.

“I’ll wait a little longer, don’t go too far.”

This time, in a rush of overwhelming emotion, Nigel took it.

Together they began the trail back up to the manor, the low buttery candle lights catching Nigel’s eye. He was a complete outsider, of another class entirely, and could never know the luxury of having a door to open or a window to stand beside.   
  


Trembling, casting a shaky glance upwards to the figure before him, he crossed the threshold. Invited in, welcomed into the new life neither boy knew they so wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

“He was, correct me if I’m wrong but he was there at the grave yard, right? You saw him.”

  
There was a rustle, possibly of fabric. Simon took this chance to fleet his eyes over the body, as it upped and began to strut around the apartment. Long, silken chestnut hair flowing merrily down it’s back; in stray curls with ample volume. The figure was tall, grand and statuesque, pivoting on his heel to eye Simon and to stare him down with a frost in his gaze.

The jaw was cut, the cheeks puffy without a single dash of rose to them. The eyes, the piercing and ferocious eyes were tantalising. Mesmerising, sharp and refined as they glared hot daggers down Simon’s back. He stopped his own beady blues from wandering, hands coming to rest atop of his thigh and he began to drum lightly atop it.

The figure was beautiful, magnificent, another entity entirely and nothing like that of anything Simon had ever known. Although his life hung in the balance, he was petrified to step out of line, he was more than enamoured; thoroughly willing to admit that he was falling victim to the ungodly pull, that fatal attraction, falling for the miser now again seated before him.

“Ahem.” 

Simon shook himself from his daze, cheeks colouring.

“Pardon?”

“Yes, it was he who encountered my poor _human_ soul at the grave yard.” There was an ample pause, Simon fidgeted. “He… he ripped me from my father’s grave, throwing me to the floor, you know that, Le Bon.”

Simon perked up, cheeks now coated dark. The way those words had been stretched, teased… he gulped audibly, placing a worrisome hand on his neck again before sighing in relief. 

He remained intact.

***  
  


_He was a very wealthy boy, having his whole life paved out before his very eyes. The manor was mystical, dark and daring, a gothic void that he welcomed me into. There were golden pillars, ruby cloaks and the finest of satin to sit upon. Rich cushions, warm beds… I stayed for the running water, the food on the table._

_***  
_

“Here, let me help you.”

Nigel flushed, a jittering hand on the hem of his stained shirt. He couldn’t even recall how it once looked, what ‘white’ had once been. The shirt had been to hell with him, watched his father die and mother sell herself in the midst of grieving, shunning him to the streets. Watched him run from the masters who threatened to tie a too gangly chimney sweep up to the stake. Watched him run free into the Black Country hills, stolen tuppence in hand. 

“I… I can leave you, if you’d like?”

“ _No!_ ” He stated, before he could help himself. “Uh, no, please I.. I’ve _never_ …”

Nigel motioned to the buckets of water. To the strange tub that was being filled.

“I noticed.” 

Frowning, his calloused fingers ran under the hem of his shirt. He barely had the strength to remove it himself. And then, as if he had the power to read minds, another set of deft hands were on him; prying the tattered fabric from Nigel’s bony body. What little lay left of his trousers followed, seams frayed and rips galore. The poor dodger let them fall to the floor, ever so embarrassed at the tiny scruff of fabric that was left. Casting a wavering glance upwards, he was met by a small smile before he turned himself away.

He released a breath he hadn’t known to be holding and stumbled into the water, watching in awe as the transparency faded to murky black; submerging his lanky figure deep within.

Nigel just sat there, caught in the trance of ripples and small bubbles as they appeared. As they disappeared, he would frown, shuffling about and wanting to see them again.

“Here,” the voice was soft.

Cocking his head, overgrown mousy brown fringe falling into his eyes, he stared aimlessly at the chalk-like bar that lay before him.

“I… uh, Sir, you know I—”

“— _Soap_ , you use it like… like this.”

He had no choice but to let his arms grow limp, not that he had much strength, and watched enraptured by the bubbles and fizz that coated his lanky limb. Then the other, he was sighing in appreciation at the small circular ministrations. He let slip a small grin, taking the… _soap_ , that was it, from those able hands and Nigel let his own plummet into the filth he stewed in.

His cheeks were growing hotter at the notion of being watched. The notion of having such a presence at his side, from another world almost. The stranger was warm and inviting, remaining close to his side as Nigel adopted a scrubbing motion and ran the soap in small circles like what had happened to him. He was still unsure, caught in the crossfire, at just how he could ever be thoroughly clean. That would never happen, he was sure, his soul was too dark and dreary and lonesome and tired and his longing for death would surely overtake him again in no time.

Nigel paused, running his tongue over his bottom lip. The realisation hit him then, he needed to clean his face and that would require an expert hand. As well as certain other parts of his battered and bruised little body, gangly and suddenly desperate for touch.

Once again, as though his mind had been read, two hands grasped a hold of the soap and smeared a small amount of it onto two smooth fingers. Shutting his eyes, tipping his head backward, Nigel smiled as the warmth pressed against his skin; as those digits roamed all over his face, caressing and moulding into it, every little crevice was tendered too. Then those finger tips dipped lower, following the knobbly collar bones and down to his ribs. He moaned, the sound from deep within his throat, before those fingers dropped and left him: a sudden chill sweeping the air.

Overcome with embarrassment, a sudden wave of intense emotion, Nigel scrubbed at himself as best as he could, his hair now soggy, as fast as he could. Hands disappearing deep, taking a hold of himself, before releasing and running his wrinkly fingertips over his thighs and stomach instead. 

He was helped out of what he now knew was called a ‘bath tub,’ where one would was away the grime of the day. A hand in the small of his back helping him to not topple over as a new; slightly scratchy piece of fabric was wrapped around his shivering frame: a ‘towel’ that would soak up the water droplets. How fascinating.

And then Nigel was faced by all the colours of the rainbow, brightening up at the sight as each precious piece was taken from the wardrobe and laid out before him on crisp, silken sheets. Each piece had a story, a rich narration that followed as Nigel straightened up in awe. His eyes were drawn to a darkened piece, a stunning noir jacket with rich golden lapels. 

Miraculously, it fit him perfectly. The jacket obtained what he now knew to be a ‘military’ aesthetic, a designer piece. Atop of a cream cotton shirt, he had never known such fabric, which moulded itself to his skin to blanket the malnourishment and neglect of the dodger. He needed help negotiating the trousers, stumbling as he battled to get them on, they were a little too short. Then the shoes, buckle waxed to perfection and he could see himself in them. The shoes presented to him, surprised him by the fit.

He couldn’t believe it, any of it. He readily thanked and thanked, dropping to his knees before the boy: own tears falling and damp hair a mess. Only to be hushed, pulled back up and, although he shucked away and tried to run, he stumbled over it.

“Sir, can I have… you know, uh, another… _hug?_ ” He tested out the new word, feeling sparks ignite on his newly jacketed skin. “I learn... better, sir, by _doing_.”

  
Nigel held his breath, barely able to raise his gaze from the shiny brass on his feet.

“Of course, Nigel.”

His tall, gangly frame contorted itself around the smaller one; burying his head into that neck and he continued to bawl. Nigel couldn’t believe his luck, how open and welcomed he had been here. He wouldn’t delude himself though, he would surely be tossed back onto the streets as soon as they found a way to plague his name with his past. Once his soul stopped riding this high and faithfully crashed back into his humiliating reality of pick pocketing; scams and schemes. A tuppence in hand, stolen bread to survive.

“Please don’t think twice, or be afraid.” It echoed.

Breaking away, Nigel stiffened. A smooth thumb had swiftly wiped at his tears and he was smiling, giggling, running his newly washed hands all over his face. Determined to inhale the fresh scent, something floral he was sure and he was more than determined to enjoy it whilst it lasted.

  
“You mustn’t call me sir, I won’t allow it.”

“Okay,” he stiffened, embarrassed by the stream of hot tears that pelted his face. “Then, my apologies si— ahem, I’m sorry.”

“Do not be Nigel, you haven't a single thing wrong.”


	5. Chapter 5

“He, forgive me if I’m reading a little deep into this but uh, he lured you in… with a _bath?_ That’s wrong on so many...”

Simon caught sight of those eyes and his heart dropped. For the first time, he forced himself into belief, those eyes seemed to show disappointment. A sadness not deep enough to hide behind the frosty gaze he expected those opals to portray.

“Times were different then.”

“What a wanker.” He coughed out, before he could stop himself.

“Excuse me, Simon?” Those eyes grew timid, confused. 

“Oh, it’s a.. an insult,” Simon gasped, unsure whether he had really meant it; “it’s not a very bad one but it’s also, you know, not a very _nice_ one either… I’m sorry.”

There was a little giggle breaching the surface. 

“…Wanker.”

Simon dared to let one of his own chuckles slip.

“Yeah, what a real _wanker_.”

***  
  


_Together we roamed the streets. He introduced me to light, to poise and pristine. He welcomed me in with a heavy heart, I no longer had to save my prayers till the morning after. A new lease on life was mine, I was clothed and I could eat. I could shine with him, my dark angel, his shadow by my side._

_There were rules, I could only roam at certain times. Like a curfew, of sorts, only I would become banished to roam during the summer sun. I’d be cast in darkened shadows, those reflecting the aura of the mystical Arcadia Manor that I was now a part of. How his parents, the esteemed Roger and Sylvia, grew fond of me I do not know. How as we grew up, the closer we became, the more distant he seemed to become too._

_It was scary, the thought of losing him. The thought of losing all that, thanks to him, was now in my possession. The honour, the credibility… I owed him my life and yet, all I wondered was ‘why.’ Why me? What had I possibly done to deserve such a life, such a new start?_

_What had I done to deserve the ultimate end to my life and for him to bestow upon me, a new one?_

_***_  
  


“So, you figured he was using you? Charming you, using his powers to... lure you in deeper?” 

Flashing a small, rueful smile, Simon locked gazes with the figure again.

There was no answer, unless Simon could take a small scoff as the answer. There was a prick at those shoulders, a ruffle from the satin, and a sniff.

_Could he? Could he be?_

Before he could help himself; “I thought you guys couldn’t cry.”

Another excruciating pause, Simon sucked in his cheek.

“We do not. I haven’t cried since my supposed twenty fifth birthday. Eighteen eighty five, my dear Simon.”

“Dear?”

A quirk up of lips, a shake of head and Simon was now smiling too, a hint of fondness blossoming in his chest.

“I can only cry through such intense emotion, when I am _overpowered_ , succumbing to it. And yet, a century and not a single tear shed. Don’t say a prayer for me now, Si—”

“—Charley, please, call me Charley.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Time was flying. The days turned into weeks, together we grew in noble stature. In 1874 he bestowed upon me the gift of music, a delightful outing to the concert hall. We bonded over classical music, his love for European tales of wonder and adventure adhering itself to my need for a tone much darker and more deluded.  
  
_

_We would continue to grow, flourish, experimenting with our clothes and hair; he would never shy away from making his statement._

_Then, the day came that we both began to work at the toy shop. I had never owned such a prized possession, something so warm in my hands. I chose a stuffed lion, Leonard’s beady eyes were rich and fur ever so soft. I would clutch him tight as I slept, for the older I became the emptier my chambers felt. The more alone I felt, knowing that he was mere metres down the hall, the more uncomfortable I would become. Unsatisfied, restless, I could not comprehend._

_***  
  
  
_

“Which, pray tell, do you think best fits for the banquet?”

Although he was still fuzzy, by 1878 Nigel had just about learnt the basics in terms of etiquette; greeting the noblemen fond of Roger and Sylvia and had been deemed an esteemed guest in their loving eyes. Yet he thought it odd that even now he saw so little of them, always basking in the shadows that seemed to heighten no matter which part of Arcadia Manor he slumped his way through.

“The black, or the black with tassels?”

The hours in solitude proved gruelling at best. He was learning to read, endless novelisations of all kinds were on display throughout the manor for him to take in at leisure. Nigel would spend his hours without the sunlight hunched over beside a bedside candlelight and try with might to remember the first letter of the word he had stated by the time he reached the final one. 

He even had glasses now too, the gift of sight was heaven. He still wavered in between the blur of his reality and the distortion his gaze laid out for him but, for the first time in forever, he felt as though he could really see.

“Tassels, with the maroon dress shirt. Your favourite, Nigel.”

“Yeah, of course!”

And yet, he was missing so much.

The dinner was a success. They sat side by side, Nigel sneaking glances to his right and following near every moment. Nigel was no perfectionist, the furthest from it with arms too long and a head that was always somehow just a moment behind.

Repetition would work wonders for him, although he wasn’t one to trust his gut. That reassurance bought a small smile to his face, coated lightly in the faintest pink blush and a slight ruby tinge to his lips. Nothing fashion forward, for that was banned. Unless, of course, they were deep within the manor where darkened gazes and gleaming eyes were encouraged; ruby and black satin lips shone bright, and smiles were so wide, he would be kidding himself if that was the look of an angel. So wide, he reminded himself, where was the lie?

***  
  


_Then came the days in which I grew restless, grew insane, lashing about in my own self isolation. The books couldn’t thrill me anymore, my drawings, my music, my newfound love for the gothic architecture of the manor was choking me, stifling me, having confined me for too long._

_The year was 1880, the first time I left the manor alone during the precious sunlight._

***

Nigel’s feet ran as fast as they could take him, coattails wafting in the breeze. He’d be unrecognisable now, if he could even grace the common folk with his presence. They would’ve thought him dead long ago. No one would look through the eyes of the stranger, no matter what was gleaming behind them. He was presumed twenty years old now, hadn’t yet lived in the outside world, lived his new status and name. He had kept Taylor, he could change it to Bates but surely that was borderline he couldn’t cross over.

There was surely something lurking deeper within him that told him no, something closer to home and heart, that meant he couldn’t bestow upon himself such a name.

What he’d get is no tomorrow, should he do that.

He couldn’t delude himself, couldn’t ignore the calls of his beloved demanding he return. Halfway down the manor grounds, the sun coating his fresh auburn hair, Nigel has never felt so alive: seemingly free from the palace of darkness.

He kept on running, limbs too gangly and he was tripping over his feet. These shoes hadn’t been made for activity but then again, neither had he really. His face was writ with determination, to find others, anyone, anyone who shared his love for fine French imported wine, twisted tales of the underworld, European symphonies and… men.

Of course he was ashamed, deemed to said isolation for so long that he had never had the luxury of letting his gaze fall over a woman. He had never lain with one, was not tempted to do so. They were a foreign entity too, women, much like the clan all around him. He couldn’t quite put a bony finger on it, perhaps the challenge put him off. The insecurity, being unsure. And besides, no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite thrash his thoughts from the boy; barely a man, mere metres down from his bedroom. Also doomed to rot in his own quarantine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampire time.

Nigel got as far as the gates, climbing over them and shucking down the other side. He wanted to beam, to swallow the sun rays that were glowing all around him. And yet, he couldn’t. Couldn’t quite let go. He span around, tassels from his shoulder pads knocking into his cheeks, as he caught sight of the manor before him.

There was an aura about Arcadia that in all his years of living here, almost eight as he would be told, he still couldn’t quite decipher. How the clouds seemed to darken, how the wind seemed to whoosh about and he could see them. _Danger’s on the wind_ , he would say, _only get a second chance when danger’s on the wind_. That wind seemed to be swooping him up now, the temptress the was the newly acquainted sun light at his back. 

Nigel stumbled forward, hands gripping tight at the blackened gates. He hadn’t even seen them in years, only the inky midnight sky would coat them in a fine silver sheen which would illuminate the spikes; glowing if he could squint and make them out from his window. 

He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t try to understand why his fingers had lurched themselves forward; wrapping themselves around the lock. Yanking a grip from his hair, he let his fringe fall into his eyes and fiddled with it; he had never quite forgotten certain tricks of the dodger trade. With two swift clicks the gates pried themselves open, newfound candlelight dusting its way up the centre cobblestone path. Towards the fountains, that were spirting dark fluid, towards the marble and stone gargoyles; statues that he was told were to protect him, not to frighten him.

Nigel blinked. The whole scene had turned itself to black.

The fountain was spirting ruby, overflowing and pelting the buckles of his shoes. He slipped, scurrying away, running straight into the fallen angel statue that lay before the Manor’s grand steps. His eyes were cloudy, he couldn’t see, couldn’t follow those eyes, couldn’t move his feet to pass. He could only stumble backwards, riding the howl of the wind, the crows that barked and the cackles that sounded.

Arcadia Manor was backlit a piercing red, casting heightened shadows and basking him in the darkness. He was panting heavily, tears falling at the mere sight of it: the horror; the thrill. He didn’t know what he liked more and that’s what was scaring him.

His crisp white linen shirt was tainted scarlet, he doused the water in his face and realised no, that’s not what it was. His frills were drooping into the fountain, how had he made his way back there?

The wind was calling him, the striking doors of rich mahogany had swooped themselves open. Nigel, desperate to stay wilder than the wind, began to blow himself in, light on his feet, whirling past the angel, seeing a tombstone at her back. He squinted, trying to bring himself back down to planet Earth, trying to read; knowing he couldn’t feel.

He was screaming now; having been swooped upwards, the doors were open and he was heading in. Struggling, fighting for his life, he was mercilessly dropped. Crashing headfirst onto the stone steps, he caught side of a crumbling tombstone, fading quickly, he read as far as ‘Nigel John Tay—’ as the doors swallowed him up, Arcadia Manor chewing him whole.

Nigel was lifted to his room, chamber doors swooping open and slamming shut behind him. He was thrown in, almost slamming his head on the blackened pillars around his bed, sheets swaying in the breeze. The glow was red, dangerous and daring, there was a knock on the door and it was rattling. He buried his head under his pillow, shoving his tears into it, as the knocker slammed harder. As his pulse raged, heartbeats stammering in his chest, he fought to take a single, stable breath.

Nigel clutched at his pillow, raising his gaze slowly. Drenched with salty tears, eye makeup smeared, he screamed as the heavy doors crashed open: thrusting in a sea of ravenous black, of crippling cackles and shocking screeches, a maddening mythical dust falling all over him and pelting him with darkened stray sparkles. Painting his already dreary soul, he shrieked and wrestled with it, swallowing the spirit, throwing the spirit back up. 

The glass windows flung open, the bed was moving. He was spinning, he couldn’t hold on. He was being lifted up, flung into the high ceiling as the chandelier crashed and glass rained down all around him.

  
Each candle blew out. Each one fell to the floor. His rug was set alight, he was dropped right into the blaze.


End file.
